


Thanksgiving Dinner

by gabrielstolethetardis



Category: Doctor Who, Psych, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Holidays, M/M, Superwholock, Thanksgiving Dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:38:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3822376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielstolethetardis/pseuds/gabrielstolethetardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam Winchester makes plans to host a huge Thanksgiving dinner, Dean is more than skeptical. Who could they possibly invite? However, Sam soon proves that more people care than Dean thinks</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanksgiving Dinner

 

"What the hell is that?" Dean demanded, regarding the large yellow plastic bag Sam held with suspicion. 

 

Sam set the bag on the motel's kitchen table. "A turkey. And stuffing, cranberry sauce, dinner rolls—"

 

"Thanksgiving?" Dean interrupted, raising an eyebrow. 

 

"It is that time of year," Sam said, beginning to remove items from the bag. A 30-pound turkey, seven cans of cranberry sauce, a 50-pound bag of potatoes...

 

"Jesus, Sam," Dean whistled, eyeing the growing mountain of food. "How many Thanksgiving dinners are you planning on having?"

 

Sam laughed, a lock of long brown hair falling over his eyes. "I'm inviting a few people."

 

Suddenly wary, Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam. "Who could you possibly be inviting?"

 

Sam just smiled. 

 

* * *

 

 

The phone was ringing, but John didn't care. He felt Sherlock's lips beneath his like a shock through his system, soft and pliable and absolutely electrifying. Moaning, John ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls—those curls, so beautiful John had long-fantasized feeling them against his hands—and Sherlock moaned in return. "You should get that, John," he managed between kisses, but John shook his head and moved to Sherlock's jaw, sucking and biting until he found just the right place. 

 

Sherlock's back arched, his stomach pressing into John's, and John wiggled closer, his legs straddling Sherlock's. Behind them, the harsh ringing ceased, and the voicemail greeting rang through their flat. 

 

'Hello, you've reached John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Sorry we couldn't come to the phone right now—' 

 

In the background, Sherlock's faint voice leaking into the recording. 'John, don't lie.' Then, a little louder: 'Go away!'

 

John's voice continued like Sherlock had never spoken. 'Please leave a message and we'll call you back.'

 

'JOHNNN—'

 

Beep. 

 

'I know you two are home.'

 

When Sam Winchester's deep voice filled the flat, John groaned and paused, his hands underneath Sherlock's white dress shirt. Sherlock reached up and ran a hand over John's face. "Ignore him." He leaned up and took John's lips in his own, and John closed his eyes with a small nod. 

 

'Stop making out and pick up the phone.'

 

"Stay," Sherlock mumbled, wrapping his hands around John's waist and pulling him to him. "John, stay."

 

As much as John wanted to, he gently took Sherlock's hands off of his waist and climbed off of him, feeling instantly cold at the lack of contact. "I'll be right back."

 

'Seriously, you two, pick up the pho—'

 

Grabbing the phone, John cut Sam off mid-sentence. "Yeah, I'm here." 

 

"You sound out of breath, John." John could hear Sam's smile through the phone. "Been running?"

 

"Shut up," John grumbled. Behind him, he heard Sherlock clamber up from the couch and cross the room, his arms wrapping around John's waist. "What do you need? Medical records? Dots connected?"

 

"Thanksgiving. This Thursday, 6 o'clock Eastern time, the Night Owl Motel in Palo Alto, West Virginia. I'd like you two to come."

 

"Mhm," Sherlock said, rubbing his nose along the side of John's neck. John suppressed a shiver. "What does he want?"

 

John covered the phone with his hand. "He invited us to Thanksgiving dinner." His forehead creased slightly. 

 

"Really?" Sherlock said, pulling back slightly. "The Winchesters, having people over for dinner?"

 

John shrugged and uncovered the phone. 

 

"I heard that," Sam said, his voice caught between dryness and amusement.

 

"Then what's the occasion?" John leaned back into Sherlock, relaxing into his wiry frame. Sherlock leaned closer, listening to the faint strains of Sam's voice leaking out of the phone. 

 

Sam paused a moment, and static filled the connection. "I guess I've just never felt like celebrating before," he said finally, his voice taking on a tone that John had heard all too many times from both Sam and Dean—a heavy sort of sadness, weathered by years of pain and sorrow. 

 

So, even though Sherlock was mumbling, "Let's not go," against John's neck, and even though catching a flight to America would cost money that they didn't have, and even though it would mean leaving mid-case, John smiled and said, "We'll be there."

 

Sam huffed out a breath, like he hadn't expected John to agree. "Great! See you then."

 

"Goodbye, Sam," Sherlock cut in, loud enough for the speaker to pick up his voice, before taking the phone from John's hand and placing it back in its cradle. Then, he spun John around and captured John's lips in his, cupping John's crimson cheeks with his pale hands and stealing John's breath away. 

 

When they pulled apart, John flushed a bright red and Sherlock breathless, John pressed his swollen lips together before saying, "You're not mad at me?"

 

Sherlock threaded his fingers with John's, giving them a gentle squeeze. "Why would I be mad with you?"

 

John felt sure Sherlock knew, but he said anyway, "For agreeing to go to Sam's dinner. Even though you don't want to go."

 

Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's, locking his icy blue eyes with John's. "If you want to go, then we'll go. Of course we'll go."

 

John's stomach twisted with such strong emotion that he thought the sheer force of it would make him crumble. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes," he said, leaning forward and pressing his lips tightly to Sherlock's. 

 

John felt Sherlock smile slightly. "I know."

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel entered the Winchesters' motel room in a flurry of feathers, greeted with the scent of stale beer, gunpowder, and burnt food. Dense smoke filled the air, and despite the fact that Castiel really didn't need to breathe, he couldn't help but cough as the smoke filtered into his lungs through his nose. 

 

"What is going on?" he asked between coughs, and Dean, who was standing at the stove with his back towards Castiel, startled and whipped around to face him. 

 

"Jesus, Cas," he grumbled, turning back around and running a hand through his hair. "You've gotta stop doing that."

 

Castiel frowned. "I'm sorry, Dean." He approached the stove cautiously. "Is it supposed to be doing that?" He nodded towards the pot of potatoes, following the long trail of black smoke with his eyes before glancing at Dean. 

 

"No," Dean sighed, moving the pot off of the heat and waving a hand through the smoke in an effort to dissipate it. "I'm just a little rusty on the whole 'cooking' thing."

 

Castiel peered into the pot. "Isn't there supposed to be water?"

 

Dean just stared at Castiel. Castiel squirmed under Dean's intense gaze. "I may have watched some cooking shows before arriving here," he admitted. "Sam said I should help you cook and I didn't want to seem uneducated."

 

"Well, looks like you know more than me," Dean said, stepping back from the pot with a small grin. "You try."

 

Castiel paused a moment, studying the potatoes with squinted eyes, before stepping forward and grabbing the sides of the pot with both hands. 

 

Mid-lift, the pain kicked in. Castiel cried out and released the pot on instinct, the metal clanging against the tile floor and peeled potatoes rolling everywhere. 

 

In two steps, Dean was at Castiel's side and had his fingers curled around Castiel's wrists. His bottle-green eyes widened and locked on Castiel's palms, which were turning an angry red and beginning to bubble. "Come on," Dean said, his voice thick, tugging Castiel over to the sink and turning the faucets to slightly under lukewarm temperature. He gently slid Castiel's burnt hands under the faucet, and Castiel winced as the water hit his hands. "Keep them under there," Dean instructed, reluctantly letting go of Castiel's wrists. "I'm going to go get some burn cream." With one final glance, Dean disappeared into the bedroom, leaving a string of curses in his wake.

 

Castiel stared down at the water spilling over the sides of his palms, turning his hands slightly so it ran over and through his fingers. His wrists tingled, and Castiel wondered if he burned them, too.

 

Dean came back after a minute, a long white tube clutched in his fist. "Give me your hands."

 

Castiel took his hands out from under the water, feeling its absence immediately as the pain set in again. He extended them towards Dean, remaining as still as he could while Dean massaged his palms with a white cream that cooled Castiel's burns within seconds. 

 

"That feels nice, Dean," Castiel said with a small shiver. 

 

Dean's thumbs stilled against Castiel's palms for a moment before resuming, and Castiel glanced up to see a small smile on Dean's face. "Don't go grabbing any more hot pots, okay?" His voice was light on the outside, but Castiel detected a faint strain of something else underneath that he couldn't quite identify. 

 

"What's wrong?" Castiel asked, cocking his head slightly.

 

Dean stopped massaging. "Nothing," he said, surprise coloring his voice. "Why?"

 

Castiel shook his head, frowning. "You just sounded... sad." He shook his head again, this time more forceful. "No, not sad. Something else."

 

Dean bit his lip, saying nothing, his fingers still wrapped around Castiel's hands. 

 

"Is it the potatoes?" Castiel asked, his stomach twisting with guilt. "I don't think Sam will be mad at you if I tell him it was my fault."

 

Dean shook his head, eyes fixed on Castiel's palms. "No, Cas. It's not your fault."

 

Castiel frowned. "I don't understand. I dropped the pot, so obviously I should take the blame."

 

"You were trying to help, Cas, and then you  _burned yourself_." Dean's eyes snapped up to Castiel's, bottle green meeting watery blue. "That's hardly your fault."

 

Castiel bit his lip and nodded slowly. "What about the potatoes?" he asked, glancing down at the floor. Pale yellow, half-burnt potatoes dotted the tile, some of them still emitting black smoke. Dean nudged one of them with his foot, and a burst of steam flared up from the vegetable.

 

"We'll have to throw them away," Dean said with a shrug.

 

Castiel hung his head. "I'm sorry."

 

Suddenly, Dean's hands left Castiel's and reached up to cup Castiel's cheeks. The touch set Castiel's cheeks on fire, and he looked up to see Dean's eyes focused on him, pupils dilated slightly. "It's not your fault," Dean repeated, soft and intense, his fingers scorching hot against Castiel's cheekbones. 

 

Castiel blinked at Dean, all thoughts of blame and potatoes and cooking fleeing his mind. Instead, Castiel's thoughts locked into little things: the tips of Dean's fingers, like pinpoints of fire against Castiel's skin; his hands, numb and tingling from the burn medicine; Dean's lips, soft and plump and parted ever so slightly. Castiel's eyes locked on Dean's lips, and he saw Dean exhale suddenly, his mouth opening wider for a moment before closing again.

 

"Cas—"

 

And then Castiel did the most human thing he'd ever done: he leaned forward and captured those plump lips in his, because he couldn't resist, not when they were so close and pink and  _available_. 

 

Dean cut off with a gasp, his hands tightening around Castiel's face. When Castiel pulled back, his lips tingling, Dean lowered his hands slowly, not taking his eyes off of Castiel. 

 

The silence stretched on, and Castiel's stomach twisted again—this time with fear. "I—" he tried, attempting to find the right words, but he couldn't think of anything to say. "Dean, I'm sor—"

 

And then Dean's lips crashed onto Castiel's, stealing away his attempted explanations. Dean slipped his hands around the back of Castiel's waist, pulling him in with one fluid motion. "Don't apologize," Dean mumbled, his lips tickling Castiel's, and Castiel nodded, taking Dean's lips in his again.

 

Glass shattered as Dean pushed Castiel roughly against the counter, but they both ignored it, the countertop digging into the small of Castiel's back as Dean pressed impossibly closer, placing his hands palms-down on the counter and leaning into the kiss. He tasted like whisky, and Castiel briefly wondered if Dean had been drinking. Then, Dean moved his hands to the back of Castiel's head, scratching his scalp with dull fingernails, and the thought disintegrated. 

 

"Holy shit."

 

Dean and Castiel broke apart almost instantaneously. Castiel didn't know where to place his eyes: on Dean, breathing heavily beside him; on the floor, covered with potatoes and small shard of crystalline glass; on Sam, standing at the entrance to the kitchen, his eyes locked on the two of them. He decided on Sam's shoes, studying the scuffed brown loafers like he'd never seen anything like them before. 

 

"Sammy," Dean said, his voice husky. He cleared his throat and continued, "You're back."

 

Castiel dared to look up. Sam's eyes were still flicking back and forth between him and Dean, and when they landed on Castiel, they remained there for a moment. "Hey Cas."

 

Too flustered to speak, Castiel nodded at the younger Winchester.

 

"Listen, Sam..." Dean began, taking a step towards his brother, but Sam held up a hand, shaking his head. 

 

"You don't have to explain yourself, Dean. I already knew."

 

Castiel and Dean traded glances. He already knew? They'd just found out themselves.

 

Sam laughed—actually  _laughed—_ and said, "Don't look so surprised. You two have been having eye sex for years, and you really thought that no one would notice? At least now maybe I won't be able to taste the sexual tension every time you two get within ten feet of each other."

 

While Dean struggled for words, Castiel found it in himself to smile faintly at Sam. "Thank you, Sam." Then, because leaving it there seemed wrong, like a piece of clothing that doesn't fit quite right: "Who else is coming to dinner?"

 

Sam grinned, and out of the corner of Castiel's eye, he saw Dean roll his eyes. "You'll see."

 

Dean leaned over towards Cas. "He just doesn't want to admit that there's nobody to invite besides you and that chick he met at the bar."

 

Sam's nose curled. "Jerk."

 

"Bitch."

 

* * *

 

 

Rose Tyler hugged her arms closer to her chest as she made the short commute from her rental car to the motel door labeled '6'. The Night Owl Motel looked shady as it was, but the fact that the brass number hung slightly askew didn't help boost her rapidly waning desire to be there.

 

She probably wouldn't even have flown over from London at all if Sam Winchester hadn't been so cute, or so polite, or so heartbreakingly sad. She had a soft spot for sob stories, and Sam's life pretty much took the cake. Dead parents, dead girlfriend, on the road with only his brother to keep him company—she had listened to him talk over the rim of a pint of beer, graciously accepting the second one he'd offered her halfway through the night. The buzz of the alcohol just made his story that much more emotional.

 

Despite all of this, she would have turned back around and driven as far away as possible had the motel door not swung open just as she was preparing to leave, revealing a smiling Sam. 

 

"Rose!" he exclaimed, stepping to the side. She could see the corner of a Paisley-patterned quilt and rust-colored carpet behind him—not quite as creepy as she'd expected, but close. "Please, come in."

 

Rose stepped into the motel room. As the door swung closed behind her, she discretely scanned her surroundings for anything that would even remotely suggest that she was about to be raped. 

 

"Does it pass the test?"

 

Apparently not discretely enough. Rose shifted uncomfortably, feeling slightly awkward at being caught. "Yeah, sorry. I'm being paranoid."

 

"Nah," Sam said, waving her apology away. "I would do the same if someone I met once at a bar asked me to fly overseas for Thanksgiving." He paused. "Thanks, by the way, for coming."

 

Rose smiled. "No trouble. My mother's out of town anyway—it's her and my dad's anniversary." She didn't mention that it was the anniversary of her dad coming back from the dead, figuratively. She didn't want Sam to think she was crazy. 

 

Sam looked about to say something, but he was interrupted by a knock at the door. "More guests," he said, giving Rose a white-toothed grin. "Feel free to sit down—we're only waiting on a couple more, and Barry's always late."

 

Rose nodded, pausing a moment before venturing further into the motel room. Behind her, the door opened, and she heard Sam exclaim, "Garth! Come in—don't worry, I hid Dean's silver."

 

Rose clutched her purse tighter to her body, her heels clicking onto tile as she followed the sound of chatter into a whitewashed kitchen. The smell of melted butter and baked bread greeted her, and she breathed deeply, letting the aroma fill her lungs and calm her nerves. She had to relax; one dinner could hardly be more risky than any of the dangers she'd faced traveling through time and space. Although, maybe all those years of putting her life in jeopardy and losing those that she loved had made her that much more suspicious of anything good. 

 

"Rose?"

 

Rose broke free of her thoughts and reentered reality to see a man walking towards her, pushing a bit of sandy blonde hair back from his forehead. "Hey," he said, his British accent nearly as thick as hers. "What are you doing here?"

 

"I... I was invited." Rose floundered a moment, searching her memory for any recollection of the man in front of her. Blonde hair, expectant brown eyes, a  _horrible_ argyle jumper...

 

"Henrick's Department Store. Every Sunday, you share a two-hour shift."

 

Rose blinked at the speaker, a man with curly black hair and high, sharp cheekbones, and then her eyes widened. "John Watson!" she exclaimed, her lips curling into a relieved smile. "Thank God, someone I know. You flew all the way from London?"

 

John shrugged. "The Winchesters are friends of Sherlock and I."

 

"Crazy coincidence." Rose shook her head in disbelief. "I can't believe it."

 

John's forehead furrowed. "How do you know Sam and Dean? I've never heard them mention you."

 

Rose felt her cheeks burn, and she let out a small, embarrassed laugh. "I was in America a few weeks ago, visiting some distant relatives, and I met Sam... at a bar."

 

"Oh, so  _you're_  the chick from the bar." A tawny-haired man with a light dusting of stubble across his chin moved to stand next to John, his green eyes giving Rose a once-over. "Looks like Sammy picked a good one this time."

 

Rose's cheeks got impossibly redder. "I'm not looking for- I mean, he's cute but—"

 

"—but she's engaged." The curly-haired man—Sherlock—nodded at her left hand, where a simple gold band shone faintly.

 

The tawny-haired man raised an eyebrow. "Better tell Sam that. He won't shut up about you."

 

"Dean!" A man with wide blue eyes and jet-black hair stuck his head into the kitchen. "I need your help. Shawn hid my clothing."

 

Dean swore. "Sorry, I've got to go." He stormed out of the kitchen, shouting after the blue-eyed man, "Why did you have your clothes off to begin with?"

 

Sherlock stared at the doorway a moment longer. "They finally got together, then."

 

Rose frowned. "What?"

 

"Dean and Castiel." Sherlock made an indiscernible gesture with his hands. "All those not-so-subtle movements towards each other—really very obvious. It's astonishing it took them this long to notice it themselves."

 

Rose's mouth curled into an 'o'. "Oh," she said, trying to hide her surprise and failing. "You mean they're... a couple?"

 

John nodded, shifting a fraction closer to Sherlock. "Are you okay with that?"

 

"Yeah," Rose said with a reassuring smile. "Yeah, of course."

 

* * *

 

 

Sam decided to forgo Grace. Instead, he sent the plate of turkey—which his brother had somehow managed _not_ to burn—clockwise around the table, smiling as it passed from hand to hand.

 

Dean. Castiel. Rose Tyler. John Watson. Sherlock Holmes. Shawn Spencer. Burton Guster. Garth Fitzgerald. Even Barry Allen, for all his chronic lateness, had managed to arrive on time, filling his plate with heaping piles of everything as they came his way. Seeing everybody sitting around one table, sharing little bits of themselves with each other but hiding the darkest parts, made Sam smile into his mashed potatoes.

 

“What are you grinning about?” Dean asked with a mouthful of turkey, raising an eyebrow at Sam. Beneath the table, Sam could just see two hands resting on Dean’s thigh, the fingers intertwined, and his smile widened. Dean followed Sam’s gaze, swallowed, and scowled. “Shut up,” he grumbled, but Sam thought he caught the ghost of a smile on his brother’s lips.

 

                 

“—and then I tackled that despicable man,” Shawn announced, his eyes filling with righteous fire.

 

Beside him, Gus rolled his eyes. “Please. You passed out. _I_ called the police, and then carried you to our car. You drooled on my vinyl.”

 

“Gus, please, I’m the one telling the story.”

 

Across the table, Sherlock leaned back in his seat and muttered to John, “Shawn Spencer is an absolute ass.”

 

John considered this for a moment, and then shrugged and nodded. “A brilliant ass.” He smiled over at Sherlock. “Maybe more than you.”

 

“Impossible.”

 

John looked down at his plate, trying to hide his grin.

 

On Sam’s left, Barry eyed Garth’s untouched plate. “Are you going to eat that?” he asked with an apologetic smile.

 

Garth shook his head, sliding his plate over to Barry. “Where do you put all of that?” he asked, watching Barry begin to devour Garth’s turkey as if he’d never tasted food before in his life.

 

“High metabolism,” Barry explained between mouthfuls.

 

Garth watched Barry with wide eyes. “How do you breathe?”

 

Sam swallowed a mouthful of corn, listening to each conversation with a smile that he couldn’t shake. It had been a long time since he’d been happy like this—far too long. The optimism felt almost like a disease, infecting every one of Sam’s cells and refusing to relinquish its hold—even when Rose had approached him before dinner and showed him her ring.

 

“His name is John Smith,” she explained, twisting the gold band mindlessly as she spoke. “He and I own a shop together, back in London.”

 

Sam dared to place a hand on her shoulder, and to Rose’s credit, she didn’t shrink back. Instead, she looked up at him, her eyebrows drooping slightly over her hazel eyes, and gave him an apologetic smile. “You’re cute, Sammy,” she said, the pet name sounding strange coming off of her lips, “but I can’t.”

 

Sam nodded, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I know.”

 

Sam blinked a few times to return to the present. Directly across from him, Rose titled her head slightly, her blonde hair cascading over her right shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’ she mouthed, forehead creased with concern.

 

Sam nodded. Then, he stood up, bringing his wine glass with him. Although Dean had wrinkled his nose at the Merlot when Sam had unpacked it from the brown paper bag, Sam couldn’t imagine Thanksgiving without it—especially for the toast.

 

Sam cleared his throat, feeling only slightly ridiculous, and the chatter trickled away into silence, all eyes on Sam. “Thank you all for coming,” he began, flashing another smile at everybody. “Before dessert, I thought we’d have a toast.” He held up his wine glass. “To acknowledge something—or someone—you’re thankful for.”

 

After hearing murmurs of assent, Sam looked at Barry. “Would you like to start?”

 

Barry looked confused for half a second before nodding. “Sure,” he said, taking hold of the stem of his wine glass. “Um… to the people at STAR Labs.” He raised his glass. “I don’t know who I’d be without them.”

 

The toast went around the table, passing from Garth:

 

“To Bess, the best woman a man could hope to marry.”

 

To Shawn:

 

“To pineapples. Although not the really ripe ones; those just get mushy.” (At which point Gus elbowed him in the side.) “Ow! Okay, _fine._ To Lassie, for his _outstanding_ sense of humor.” (At which point Gus elbowed him again.) “Hey, I was being serious!”

 

To Gus:

 

“To my job at the pharmaceutical company, for helping me pay all of Shawn’s bills.” (At which point Shawn muttered under his breath, “You wanted that trampoline too.” Gus studiously ignored him.)

 

To Rose:

 

“To my fiancé, who makes even the worst days worth living.”

 

To Sherlock:

 

“To John, who somehow manages to put up with me every day.” (At which point John tried to protest but Sherlock silenced him, not unkindly, with a glance.)

 

To John:

 

“To Sherlock, who has a heart.” (At which point John gave Sherlock a smile so tender the rest of the dinner guests would have had to be blind not to see how much John cared for him.) “Even though he likes to pretend he doesn’t.”

 

To Castiel:

 

“To God. Not because of His existence, but because of what He has created.” (At which point he glanced predictably at Dean.)

 

To Dean:

 

“To Sam and Cas. We’ve been through the meat grinder together, somehow coming out alive on the other side, and that’s something to be damn thankful for.”

 

And, finally, to Sam. He raised his glass high into the air, watching the light refract through the wine. “To tonight,” he declared. “To whatever circumstances that brought us all here together. To friends and family and lovers.” He raised the wine glass to his lips, and everybody joined him as he took a long pull of the Merlot, tasting the bitterness of fermented grapes.

 

When Sam set his empty glass down, he caught Dean’s eyes. His brother’s face was soft, his green eyes wide and glistening, and it took Sam a moment to recognize the expression overtaking Dean’s face: happiness. ‘Thank you,’ Dean mouthed, and for a moment, Sam forgot about every bad thing he and his brother had ever experienced. It felt like they were young again, Sam torn away from Stanford to crisscross the country in his brother’s ’67 Impala, hunting monsters and drinking beers and hustling pool to make end’s meet. The dark, shady bars and musty motel rooms in back-road towns, ordinary cases with no grand schemes or looming apocalypses, times spent with Dean before nothing stood between them—Sam missed it all. He would have given anything to go back before the world turned on its head and sent everything tumbling down behind it.

 

Instead, Sam nodded at Dean. Then, he went to get the pie.

 

 


End file.
